


Homeward Bound

by bobina



Category: Glee
Genre: College, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Romance, quinntana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobina/pseuds/bobina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That first year in college, away from home, friends, and everything familiar is where you find yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

> Originally inspired by the Homeward Bound/Home mashup in season 4's "Thanksgiving" episode, focusing on Quinn and Santana's relationship. This is my first attempt at a Glee fic. I expect it to be 6 or 7 chapters total. Reviews are always welcome.  
> Please do not copy/re-post without permission.

 

The sun is setting as Quinn Fabray boards the train from New Haven, Connecticut to Bryan, Ohio, a song filtering through her heart and the hint of a smile perking the corners of her lips.

* * *

 

_Please have your government-issued photo ID and boarding pass ready._

Noah Puckerman sighs, rolling his eyes but pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as the recording repeats again. He pulls out his driver’s license, careful not to drop the photo he keeps behind it. He stares down at the picture of his daughter for just a moment before moving forward in the line.

* * *

 

The horizon stretches endlessly beyond Chicago, the waning sunlight gleaming against the still waters of Lake Michigan. Mike Chang cranes his neck to see his adopted home disappearing behind the plane, his legs bouncing with restless anticipation.

* * *

 

Santana Lopez winces as she turns the key in the ignition, her head pounding and last night’s alcohol churning in her stomach. Pulling down her sunglasses with one hand, she punches off the radio with the other. She rolls down the window, letting cold air and the sounds of the road fill her ears as she pulls the car onto I-71, turning north.

* * *

 

The “Fasten Seatbelts” sign mocks Mercedes Jones as her thumb hovers over the play button on her mp3 player. This is only her second time in an airplane by herself and she sends a silent prayer to the heavens as the airplane ascends into a cloudless sky. As soon as the pilot gives the okay, she presses play. Music fills her ears and she is instantly calmed.

* * *

 

Footsteps echo in the empty hallway as Finn Hudson makes his way to the auditorium, waiting for his friends to come home.

* * *

 

Late that night, the six friends find each other in the auditorium at William McKinley High School. Quinn smiles when Puck pulls his guitar out of nowhere. She can’t help but hum along as he strums a few chords. Soon his husky voice is harmonizing easily with hers. Mike and Santana, Mercedes and finally Finn join in, and they can almost pretend they’re back in glee club, putting on an impromptu performance for the rest of the class. Almost.

* * *

 

They end up at Breadstix for dinner (of course they do) and over obscene amounts of carbohydrates, they play catch up. They fall easily into old conversations, none more so than Puck and Mercedes. Santana sits at the edge of the group, watching her old friends. They all have new lives, and though it’s somewhat gratifying that Finn seems more lost than she is, Santana doesn’t relish it the way she used to.

She stays on the periphery of the conversations floating around her. As Quinn tells them of her new life and new experiences at Yale, Santana finds herself fighting tears. She tells herself they’re leftover from the alcohol she consumed last night at a frat party, nothing more, but it’s impossible to sit with her friends and not notice who is missing.

 It hits her harder than she could’ve imagined and she’s the first to leave when dinner is over. She’s walking across the parking lot when a familiar voice calls out to her.

“Santana, wait!”

Santana turns, squinting as cold wind whips across her face. Quinn is hurrying after her as fast as her expensive heels can carry her. Santana notices the slight limp in Quinn’s step and her mind flashes back to a pretty girl in a pretty purple dress, struggling to stand out of her wheelchair.

“What do you want, Ivy League?” There’s more venom in her voice than she means and she straightens her back, expecting a challenge as Quinn’s brow furrows.

“I – You didn’t say goodbye,” Quinn replies lamely.

Santana laughs, but it’s a hollow, mirthless sound. She shakes her head, any flashes of remorse gone, and stalks to her car, Quinn hot on her heels. “Good night, Quinn.”

“Santana!” Quinn is indignant now. “I don’t get where this attitude is coming from.”

“You think I want to sit in there and listen to how perfect your life is now? I needed my best _friend!_ ” Santana’s tears are hot as they streak down her cheeks. Quinn steps back at the force behind the words, her mouth open in shock. “I called you, I texted you, and you never called me back.” Santana swipes at her eyes, smearing her mascara as she fights to keep control.

“What are you talking about? Santana, what’s wrong?” Quinn reaches out a tentative hand, her cold fingers finding purchase on the other woman’s elbow. Santana wrenches her arm away, her face screwed up in pain and anger. “San, I don’t understand. When did you call? If you couldn’t reach me, why didn’t you just call Brittany?”

Santana’s face falls, all of the composure she’s tried to keep since driving into the Lima city limits crumbling in the instant that name is spoken.

“Oh, God. Wait, are – are you and Britt –?” Quinn sucks in a breath, unsure of what to ask and unsure of what answer she hopes to hear.

Santana deflates, still wiping tears from her cheeks. “We – I broke up with her.”

“What? When? Why?” Too many questions form in Quinn’s mind and she tries in vain to remember the last time she really _talked_ with the woman in front of her, her supposed best friend.

“In October, when I came back for fall break. We just… I dunno.” Santana shakes her head, turning to walk back to her car. Quinn struggles to keep up, their heels clacking unevenly on the pavement.

“Santana…” Quinn can’t think of a thing to say, is so unprepared for this moment that she’s left speechless. Santana opens the passenger door for her, gesturing impatiently for her to sit down. Quinn settles into the seat of the Camaro, wrinkling her nose at the stale aromas of perfume, alcohol and cigarettes permeating the interior of the car. Santana opens the driver side door and drops herself into the seat with an unceremonious huff. She rolls the seat as far back as it will go and leans back against it, pinching the bridge of her nose with her left hand, her eyes closed. When she begins speaking, her voice is thick with emotion.

 “In high school everything was so clear, you know?” She swallows at the lump in her throat. “You and me were going to fight over the top spot on the Cheerios every year and make Rachel’s life a living hell, and Britt was gonna be my girlfriend forever, and you and Finn would get married and have a million potato-sack babies.”

Quinn scoffs, a thick sound in the back of her throat, but Santana continues without looking at her, her voice hoarse.

“But then we graduated. You were going to Yale, and Rachel and Kurt were going to New York – and who would’ve thought that what those two losers did made any difference in my life? Puck almost didn’t graduate and Brittany….” Santana sighs, opening her eyes to stare at the ceiling. “It wasn’t until she told me she wasn’t gonna graduate that I really thought about what _I_ was doing, and suddenly we had no time for each other. She was in school all summer getting her grades up and I had to be in Louisville for cheer camp at the end of July.”

Santana takes a deep breath and turns her head, pinning Quinn with dark, pain-filled eyes. Quinn lets out a breath in a _whoosh_ and reaches out a hand, gripping her friend’s knee with a gentle squeeze. Santana’s voice is stronger, her conviction clear when she finally continues a long moment later. “We barely had time for a phone call and I… I just, I don’t know who I am when I’m not with her and that’s not a good thing.”

They sit quietly, lost in thought. Santana covers Quinn’s hand on her knee with her own, squeezing slim fingers. Slushy rain begins to pelt the windshield. Santana reaches around the steering wheel and uses her left hand to awkwardly turn the key in the ignition without letting go of Quinn. She cranks up the heater when Quinn shivers at the sudden blast of cold air coming through the vents.

“How is Louisville?” Quinn asks when she can’t see out of the windshield anymore. Santana’s response is immediate.

“I hate it.” She lets go of Quinn’s hand to push her long hair back, readjusting her bangs. She blows a frustrated breath out from between pursed lips. “I’m pretty much back in the closet.”

Quinn frowns and opens her mouth to speak, but Santana cuts her off. “People are _different_ down there, Quinn. Did you know you can still get fired just for being gay in Kentucky? At least here, people mostly just judge you silently. Down there, it’s like it’s expected to hate people like me. It’s bullshit.”

Quinn studies her for several long minutes, taking in her friend’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “Everyone treats you like that, or just the jocks and cheerleaders?”

“Quinn…”

“I’m just saying, maybe you need to branch out.” Quinn holds her hands up defensively. “If high school taught us anything, it’s that you can find decent people in unexpected places. Look at us. Look at glee club!”

Santana hums something like agreement. She leans forward and fiddles with the thermostat and then the radio. When she finds a decent song, Quinn reaches out and takes her hand again. She laces their fingers together, tracing patterns with her thumb. “Have you looked into an on-campus LGBT group or GSA or anything like that?”

Santana shakes her head, her face scrunching and her eyes widening. “Have you _seen_ the lesbians in Kentucky?” Quinn can’t help but laugh at her reaction.

“Okay, fine. What about your classes? What are you taking this quarter?”

Santana rattles off her schedule like a grocery list. “English comp – required, computer literacy – required, intro to communications, and modern film. We basically watch movies for credit; it’s awesome.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and shifts in her seat to face Santana. “Really? That’s all you’re taking?”

“Some of us just aren’t cut out for post-doctorate work before we’re 25, okay?” Santana crosses her arms under her breasts and looks out the window, avoiding Quinn’s eyes.

“No music classes, Santana? No _math_?” Quinn chastises gently.

“ _Why_ would I purposely take a math class ever again if I don’t have to?”

“Do I really have to remind you that you’re the only person in McKinley history to get a 5 on both the Statistics _and_ Calculus AP exams? And, if I recall correctly, you didn’t study. You’re kind of a math nerd, Santana.”

“I am not!” Quinn smiles at the petulant tone and laughs when the corners of Santana’s mouth twitch upwards as she tries not to smile, too. “I’m just… numbers make sense to me, is that a crime?”

“No, but… you have a head for numbers and a ridiculously quick wit. I don’t know, maybe you could take some business classes or something,” Quinn suggests seriously.

Santana nods. “Yeah, maybe.” Her eyes begin to cloud over as the song on the radio changes. Quinn recognizes the Whitney Houston song and reaches up to change the station but Santana grabs her hand. Their eyes meet in the dim light of the center console and Santana shakes her head. “It’s okay. Leave it on.”

“I missed you.” Quinn smiles sadly.

Santana scoffs. “Yeah, I could tell, what with all of those phone calls and emails.” Quinn’s face falls.

“I’m sorry, Santana.”

“Yeah, I know. Me too.” Santana rubs a hand over her forehead, feeling her headache threatening to come back with a vengeance.

“Can we, I don’t know. Can we start fresh? Get to know each other again?”

“What, you mean like actual friends?” Santana’s tone is teasing. Quinn’s is serious.

“Yeah.”

Santana mulls it over, her dark eyes scanning the now-empty parking lot through the half-melted slush coating her window.

“I’d like that. Want me to drive you home?”


	2. New Year's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note about my head-canon for this fic: the Slapsgiving incident didn't happen, but let's say a nicer, friendly version of that conversation did, off-screen.  
> I wanted to upload this chapter sooner than later because if I don't, I know I won't stop editing it. After this, I aim to update about once a week.  
> Thanks to those who are reading and who've left kudos so far. If you're so inclined, reviews are appreciated!

A month passes before they see each other again. The entire glee club, past and present, descends on Puck’s mom’s house for the New Year’s Eve party to end all New Year’s Eve parties. At least that’s what the invitation said. Quinn looks around the living room and thinks that what she sees is pretty tame compared to some of the Yale fraternity parties she’s been to. Those parties had better liquor, at least.

“Hey.” Puck’s voice floats up to her from the couch, startling her.

“Hi.”

She smiles as he stands stiffly and she follows him to the folding table set up at the edge of the room. There are various liquor bottles lined along its surface. In the center is a large bowl filled with some kind of punch concoction, surrounded by red Solo cups.

“How’s Harvard?”

Quinn rolls her eyes, her smile instantly fading to an annoyed frown. “Yale.”

“Whatever.” Puck smirks, obviously enjoying himself. “You still banging the Naughty Professor?” he leers. A hot flush creeps along Quinn’s spine and colors her cheeks.

“Who told you?” She knows, but she asks anyway. “Santana? I told her about that in _confidence._ ”

“Yeah, just like high school.” Puck sighs and crams his hands into his pockets. His eyes narrow as he studies Quinn. “You do something to piss her off and she comes cryin’ to me.”

Quinn’s frown deepens and she feels entirely too sober for this conversation. Anger pools in her stomach like ice. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Puck shakes his head. “Nothing.” He gestures to the punch bowl and the array of cups. “Are you drinking tonight, or do I get to keep my balls?”

“Give me a cup,” Quinn demands.

She briefly worries that Rachel may have been the one to mix the punch but grabs the offered beverage anyway and downs it in one gulp, smirking as Puck’s eyes widen, impressed. She hands him the empty cup and gestures for a refill, enjoying the way the alcohol warms her and makes her limbs tingle. Puck hands her the newly refilled cup and she sips at it, turning from him and wandering back to the party.

* * *

 

It’s an hour later and a heavy bass beat thumps under her feet as Quinn winds her way through Mrs. Puckerman’s living room. The TV is on, muted, and she shakes her head when Ryan Seacrest in Times Square appears on screen. The tattoo on her lower back itches like it’s new and healing again. No one in the room dares glance her way, but she can feel them wanting to. Sugar whispers something into Artie’s ear from her seat in his lap and he chokes on his drink in response. Quinn’s face flushes and she hastens her retreat to the kitchen.

She’s looking for something, but the alcohol swimming in her system is preventing her from remembering what that something is. She keeps looking anyway – wandering past Tina and Mike making out on one side of the dining room table while Rachel, Brittany, Sam, Mercedes and Blaine attempt to play quarters on the other – before stepping out the back door and out onto the porch.

The air is almost shockingly cold, the alcohol in her system doing nothing to counteract the single digit weather. It feels good for a brief moment, though Quinn wishes she could remember where Puck put her coat. She quickly realizes she’s not alone when the porch swing creaks under the weight of a shifting body.

Santana watches her with lidded, impossibly dark eyes. Her body is covered in a fleece blanket and Quinn is instantly jealous, at least until Santana lifts the end invitingly.

“You look like you’re gonna freeze your tits off. Get in.”

Quinn takes Santana’s invitation more readily than she’d like to admit. She’s just drunk enough that she craves the contact of a familiar body pressed next to hers as she snuggles into Santana’s warm side. Soft hands pull at her until they are completely wrapped up together and Quinn breathes a sigh of relief as she starts to regain feeling in her fingers and toes. She rests her head on Santana’s shoulder, giggling softly and inadvertently inhaling the other woman’s scent. It’s intoxicating. She feels dark eyes studying her and untangles a hand from Santana’s to attempt to cover a smile.

“Quinn….” Santana’s voice is low and teasing. “It’s not even midnight yet. Are you drunk?”

Quinn closes her eyes and smiles up at the roof overhang. “Maybe.” Santana giggles and curls deeper into Quinn’s side.

“Are you?”

“Pfft, no.” Santana shifts and Quinn looks down at her.

Santana smiles slyly up at her and pulls a bottle of rum from under the blanket.

“Maybe,” she clarifies before taking a swig. She swallows several mouthfuls before offering the bottle to Quinn.

The liquor burns sweetly on her tongue as Quinn sips a little more cautiously. She’s right on that razor’s edge between giggly and clingy, and starting a meaningless fight over Santana’s inability to keep a secret. She swallows a little more of the rum and watches Santana watch the cold, bright stars. Dried tear tracks have streaked through Santana’s makeup and Quinn wonders if maybe Santana has already jumped over that line.

Brittany’s infectious laugh resonates from inside the house and Quinn suddenly finds herself in a forgiving mood. She hands the bottle back to Santana. “What are you doing out here all alone, anyway?”

 She slips her free hand back under the blanket and rests it on Santana’s slim, muscular thigh, playing with the hem of her skirt. Santana sucks in a shuddering breath and lets out a rueful laugh on the exhale. “What’s it look like, Lolita? I’m gettin’ my party on!” She punctuates her exclamation with another swig of rum.

“Don’t call me that,” she sighs, pinching Santana’s thigh with just enough force to leave a mark. Santana barely flinches, a slight narrowing of her eyes the only indication that she felt it at all.

“Why aren’t you _inside_ ‘getting your party on?’ You know, where our friends are?” Quinn stares at the side of Santana’s face, watching emotion flicker across her features. “Besides, it’s freezing out here,” she mutters.

Santana blinks at her, her dark eyes glassy in the low light streaming onto the porch through the windows. “Friends, huh?” she says after several minutes, her voice thick.

Quinn just watches her, brows knit in confusion. “You really have problems with that word, don’t you?”

“Well,” Santana begins, shifting uncomfortably on the wooden porch swing. “When Mercedes answered the door with ‘Welcome, Satan….’” She lets the sentence hang in the freezing air. Quinn gives her thigh a gentle squeeze.

“Oh, come on, Santana. You call her Wheezy more than her real name. What did you expect?” Quinn tries to keep her voice level, not accusatory, but Santana’s eyes brim with tears anyway.

“I just… Mr. Schue always said we were a family,” Santana begins, her voice thick and wavering. “And as stupid and lame as that is, I guess I started to believe him, but… they don’t trust me. Hell, Rachel won’t even stay in the same room as me for more than, like, two minutes.” Fat tears roll down Santana’s cheeks and her breath comes in panicky gasps.

“Come here,” Quinn whispers, folding Santana into her embrace. She lets Santana cry against her for only a few moments before pressing again. “C’mon. Let’s go inside, have a real drink, mingle with the common folk.”

Santana snorts at that, sitting up and scrubbing her hands down her cheeks, banishing her tears. Quinn thinks she may have won her over until Brittany’s voice filters out from the kitchen window above their heads. Quinn tenses, expecting a break down, but Santana seems to shake off the intrusion.

“Yeah, we can go in,” Santana says finally. “Just… gimme a minute?”

“Sure.” Quinn rests her head on Santana’s shoulder, the alcohol in her bloodstream making the world tilt in the most delicious way.

“So tell me,” Santana slurs.

“Hmm?”

“How’s all that rich Yale snobbery treating you?” Santana turns to rest her cheek on top of Quinn’s head. Quinn can feel her breath tickling along her scalp and it makes her shiver. She can’t help but bristle at the question, wondering what Santana _isn’t_ asking.

“Uh, well,” she hedges, shaking her head under Santana’s cheek. “Russell Fabray might have money and power by western Ohio’s standards, but by Yale standards? Not so much.”

“Mm, so what, you’re like a country bumpkin to all those Ivy League snots?”

Quinn shifts, settling into Santana’s warm side and pulling the blanket further around their shoulders. She breathes, in and out, fighting rage. “Sometimes… sometimes it’s easier to be… uh, God, to be Lucy again.” She swallows at the lump that’s suddenly clogging her throat. “Does that – is that a stupid thing to say?”

Santana nods against her head. “No.” Quinn feels her smile, the corner of Santana’s mouth shifting Quinn’s hair.

“Ass.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t say it out loud.” Santana sits up, pulling away from Quinn’s body to turn and look at her. “Look, Q, if you want to be Lucy, be Lucy. If you want to be Quinn, you’ve got to figure out who Quinn is first.” Quinn watches her with a skeptical look on her face.

“You remember why Britts and me joined glee club in the first place?”

Quinn narrows her eyes, lost at the current turn of the conversation. “Um, yes, it was to spy for Coach Sue.”

“No,” Santana says defiantly. “It was because _you_ told us we had to.” Quinn’s eyebrows are somewhere near her hairline. Santana rolls her eyes as an embarrassed flush spreads across her cheeks. “Look, this doesn’t leave this porch swing, but even though Brittany was the best dancer in that joint and I can sing Rachel under the table in my sleep, we never would’ve gotten that chance without you, and these assholes,” she gestures toward the house with her head, “wouldn’t be our best friends.”

Before Quinn has a chance to respond with more than a grin, loud cheering resounds from inside the house.

_“FIFTEEN! FOURTEEN!”_

The breath catches in Quinn’s throat and she turns back to Santana with wide eyes. Her heart beats wildly in her chest at the sudden intrusion and she gently detaches herself from Santana’s’ side. She pushes the blanket aside and stands on wobbly legs.

_“NINE! EIGHT!”_

“It’s later than I thought,” Quinn muses wistfully. She peers into the house, watching as their friends gather into the living room, already pairing off. “I guess we’re the only two without someone to kiss at midnight.”

Someone down the block has begun shooting off bottle rockets. Light and fire explode into the midnight sky and Quinn feels more than hears Santana stand up behind her.

“I always was better at math than you.”

Quinn turns slowly. It takes her a moment until the realization of what Santana is implying dawns on her. She watches with wide eyes as Santana approaches her, nervously smoothing her hands down her dress. Santana smiles softly, recognizing the trepidation in Quinn’s eyes.

“C’mon, Quinn. Just… close your eyes. I’ll be anyone you want me to be.”

_“FOUR! THREE!”_

Quinn chews her lower lip nervously. “What about me?” Santana just keeps inching closer, and Quinn realizes this is probably the first time Santana has seen Brittany since they broke up.

“Don’t think about that,” Santana whispers against her lips, as if reading her mind.

_“TWO! ONE!”_

Santana’s hand slides up Quinn’s arm and her lips are soft and insistent. Quinn sighs into the kiss, her heart racing. Fire grows low in her belly and she reaches out to steady herself, latching onto Santana’s hip. Her skin is hot and she can no longer feel the chill in the air.

_“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”_

Just as Quinn opens her mouth, just as Santana’s tongue snakes against her lips and Quinn’s eyes roll back behind closed lids, the door opens with a groan. The whoops and hollers of their friends spill out onto the porch. Quinn barely has time to process the loss of heat as Santana pulls away before she hears Tina’s voice.

“There you two are! Where have you been?!”

Warm hands tug on her arm, pulling her into the house. She reaches out quickly to latch onto Santana’s hand, pulling her along with them. Tina’s giggle leads the way. Quinn licks her lips, tasting salt and rum and tobacco. She takes one look back at Santana and sees the barely contained lust in her dark, lidded eyes. She gasps as the warmth of the house envelopes her and Santana grins triumphantly.

Drinks are pressed into their hands and they’re pulled into the warm embraces of their friends. The celebration rages until well after dawn.


	3. Valentine's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely pleased with how this chapter turned out, but it got across everything it needed to. Mostly I'm challenging myself to actually finish and post a chapter a week to finally finish something I start. This one's a little on the short side, but the next two will definitely be longer. If you're reading, please review!

Santana is bored and restless. Her roommates, Rebecca and Michaela are both out, and for once she has the dorm room all to herself. It’s not that she doesn’t like her roommates, though Rebecca reminds her a bit too much of the worst of Rachel Berry at times, but Santana has never shared space like this with anyone before and any alone time she can get is treasured. Her homework was finished hours ago and she actually cleaned up her side of the room, which is pretty much the first time _that_ has ever happened. Still, she is bored and finds herself sitting at her desk, alone, on Valentine's Day.

Even if it was a conscious decision, she can't help but think about the parties she's missing or the sex she could be having. Michaela invited her to a party when Santana’s date fell through, but Santana still isn’t quite sure about her. Her slanted eyes, so much like Brittany’s except for the color, always seems to dance with mischief and she smells like rose water and weed. She says she’s straight but not narrow and she dresses like a lesbian hippie from the 70s, all bell bottom jeans and flowy peasant tops, and seems to be perpetually sunburned, but she somehow makes Santana laugh in a way no one has before. Santana wonders if that’s why the three of them haven’t killed each other yet.

Santana slumps in her chair and bends over in a huff of frustration. Regret blooms in her chest as she realizes that even though she’d be stuck with Michaela’s unwashed, unshaven hiking club friends all night, she should’ve gone to the party. It would be way more fun than sitting home alone, dateless. She bangs her head lightly against the desktop and somehow manages to jostle her laptop awake, the screen flooding the dim room with artificial light. Cursing under her breath, she squints at the screen.

Skype opens automatically as the computer boots up and Santana instantly notices that she's not the only loser home alone on Valentine's Day. She clicks the mouse over a familiar screenname and waits for the other person to accept the video call. A few seconds later, another dorm room sweeps into view. Santana smirks at the Georgia O’Keefe print on the opposite wall.

“Santana.” Quinn states the name by way of a greeting. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I figured you’d be out on a hot date tonight.”

Quinn, too, is sitting at her desk in what appears to be an otherwise empty dorm room. Her hair is pulled up in a short, messy ponytail and her glasses are making a rare appearance, perched on her nose. She sets the book she was reading to one side, shifting her focus to her friend on the other side of the screen.

“Whatever, Q. I hate Valentine’s Day,” Santana replies bitterly. She pulls at a stray thread of her old Cheerios sweatshirt. “It’s just a ploy by Hallmark to waste paper and sell cheap-ass, nasty chocolate to unsuspecting saps. No thanks.”

Quinn’s smile is wry and her reply sardonic. “I see those business classes have been paying off.”

Heat flares in Santana’s cheeks. She looks away from the computer, dark eyes sweeping across the room. “Yeah, well, when the two smartest women in my life tell me to do something, I’ll damn well do it.” Her gaze lands on Michaela’s mini-fridge and her eyes light up. “A ha!” She gets up and crosses the room as Quinn is asking,

“Two, huh? Me and who else?” Her voice sounds tinny and like she’s underwater through the laptop speakers. “And where did you go?”

Santana laughs out loud as she walks back to her desk, contraband in hand, to see Quinn attempting to peer around the edge of the screen after her. “I’m right here, you dork.” She sits back down and pops the lid off of the pilfered item, smirking as she notices Quinn leaning closer, trying to read the label.

“Is that… Chunky Monkey?” Quinn whispers, somewhat in awe.

“It is.” Santana pulls a spoon out of the top drawer of her desk and digs in. “Want some?” she teases. She waves the ice cream tub in front of the camera, laughing as Quinn huffs and crosses her arms over her chest.

“If Sue Sylvester could see you now.”

“Speak of the devil,” Santana muses around a mouthful of ice cream. “She was the other one.”

 Quinn quirks an eyebrow in confusion and Santana rolls her eyes before elaborating. “You asked who else told me to think about taking business classes. It was Coach Sue. When she told me about the scholarship to Louisville, she said she could see me as a business major. I didn’t really think anything of it until you basically said the same thing.”

Quinn just hums in something like agreement and they settle into a mostly comfortable silence.

“I wish modern technology would catch up with my hormones,” Quinn mutters a few minutes later, eyeing Santana’s ice cream with more than a little jealousy.

“Speaking of, why aren’t you out with Professor Can’t-Keep-it-in-His-Pants? Shouldn’t he be showering you with inappropriately expensive gifts right about now?” Santana can’t quite hide the disgust in her voice. Not that she tries all that hard.

“Would you drop that already? He kissed me, _one time_ , Santana,” Quinn snaps. “And after that he flirted with me constantly because he thought I was the kind of girl who’d do anything for a good grade. I put a stop to it before it ever started. I transferred to the other section of psychology and made a formal complaint to the dean.”

Santana remains silent, nodding slowly, and Quinn takes off her glasses, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “You were right, okay? I need to figure out who Quinn is, and I can’t do that if I keep defining myself by the men in my life.”

Santana sits back in her chair, appraising the woman on the screen in front of her with a smile. She continues nodding her head absently, her smile turning into a grin. “Q. I’m impressed. I gotta say, I never thought I’d hear you _actually_ say those words.”

Quinn smiles, somewhat shyly. “Yeah, well, you’re not the only one being influenced by intelligent women.”

“Oh, yeah?” Santana leans forward, and finds herself wishing that she was talking to Quinn in person rather than through a computer screen. The physical distance has suddenly never felt more real and she briefly remembers why she was so reluctant to try and continue her relationship with Brittany. She tamps down that thought with a shake of her head and focuses on being happy to be talking to Quinn here and now. “Did you get into that women’s studies class you wanted?”

“I did,” Quinn replies, laughing softly. Santana beams at her, pride suddenly blooming in her chest at Quinn’s admission.

“Let me guess? You’ve already got your favorite Gloria Steinem quote all picked out?” Santana teases, licking at the ice cream on her spoon before replacing the lid on the tub.

“Well I will admit, that one about the fish and the bicycles does seem fairly appropriate at this point in the conversation,” Quinn laughs.

Santana stands, chuckling, and walks across the room. She raises her arms over her head, stretching and popping her back. “So we know why _I’m_ alone tonight,” Santana hears as she returns the ice cream to its place in the mini-fridge, “but what about you?”

Santana rolls her eyes and scrapes her long hair up high on her head. She sits back down and glares at Quinn as she pulls her hair into a messy bun.

“Or are those Kentucky lesbians still too scary?” Quinn teases with a knowing smirk.

“Ugh, whatever, Q,” Santana scoffs. “I _had_ a date, if you must know. Little hottie by the name of _Elaine._ ” Her cheeks flush in unfamiliar embarrassment at the admission.

“Elaine? That wouldn’t be the same Elaine on the Cards with you that you were pining over last week, would it? The redhead? She was cute.” Quinn’s grin lights up the screen. She settles forward, ready for best friend gossip and Santana has to laugh at the eagerness on her face.

“Yeah, one in the same.”

“So why aren’t you two out painting the town red right now?” Quinn’s eagerness gives way to concern and Santana can’t stand the look on her face.

“It just, I don’t know, didn’t work out or whatever.” Quinn just stares, waiting. Santana knows she’ll never out-last that steady gaze and caves in almost immediately. “Okay, fine, if you _must_ know, I called it off. I just… I’m not ready. Like I told you, I don’t know who I am here.”

Quinn smiles. “So I’m not the only fish without a bicycle then?”

“Something like that,” Santana replies, feeling some of the loneliness melt away. “Wish you were here.”

Quinn’s laughter surprises her. “With the amount of shit you talk about Louisville, and Kentucky, no, Santana, I wish _you_ were _here_.”  Quinn’s eyes suddenly light up at something she seems to be reading on her screen. “Speaking of, check your email and then tell me what you’re doing for spring break.”

Santana does as she’s told, quirking an eyebrow in amusement at Quinn’s excited reaction to whatever she’s looking at. Santana pulls up her email to see a new message from Kurt Hummel, sent to all of the 2012 glee graduates inviting anyone and everyone to New York for spring break.

She purses her lips in interest at the very un-Kurt-like post-script: _First two people to respond get dibs on my pull-out couch._

She wonders if he’s worried no one will come.

“You respond yet?” she asks Quinn as she hits “Reply” to Kurt’s email.

“Sending it right now. I’ve seen pictures of his teeny-tiny apartment and that couch is mine!” Quinn replies. Santana laughs at the impassioned response.

“I’m not about to miss a free bed in New York City. No way am I sleeping on the kitchen floor,” Santana mutters, sending a short response to Kurt that simply says, _That couch belongs to Snix and she’ll cut a bitch if you tell her otherwise._

They spend the rest of the evening looking up plane and train fares, excitedly making plans for their unexpected week in the Big Apple.


	4. Spring Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this one! It was the least-fleshed-out chapter of the bunch and needed a bit more time to marinate before it was ready. The next chapter is already written and will just need a once-over when I have time, so expect another update in a few days. Thank you to all who have been reading and reviewing!

On a decidedly un-spring-like day in the middle of March, Quinn finds herself picking her way along the uneven sidewalks of New York City. A cold wind whips snow in flurries around her head as she struggles to keep up with her friends. The cold makes her back stiff and her left hip ache around the metal pins and wires holding it together. She curses under her breath and wills her legs to carry her faster. Leave it to Kurt and Rachel, two people who could barely navigate the chaotic halls of high school without at least a slushie facial every day to weave seamlessly through the fast-paced crowds of Manhattan.

They’re winding their way around Union Square, looking for a Jamba Juice Kurt swears is “right around the corner” because Tina is craving a Peanut Butter Moo’d and both Mike and Santana start drooling over the prospect of a Mango-A-Go-Go as soon as the smoothie shop is mentioned.

Quinn steps awkwardly to dodge a puddle of melting gray snow when a man wearing a sweater Quinn is fairly certain her grandmother owns, comes barreling out of Whole Foods, arms full of grocery bags, and almost knocks her over. She thinks briefly that he’d almost be cute if it weren’t for his unfortunate fashion choices and handlebar mustache. Strong hands grip her shoulders and a soft, familiar voice asks if she’s alright. Handlebar Mustache races down the steps to the subway without so much as a backward glance and Quinn realizes that her heart is hammering in her chest. Her breath is thin and wheezy and she can only nod as Mike steer s her toward a less crowded patch of sidewalk. He calls ahead to the others and in an instant Kurt is leading them away from the shops, across perpetually busy 14th Street and into the park to find somewhere to sit down, smoothies forgotten.

A few errant flakes of snow continue to fall, but it’s not enough to stick to anything besides the mulch and decaying leaves around the trees. The weather has kept the hustle and bustle of the Union Square Greenmarket to a minimum, and the group is able to find a few open benches with ease. Mike helps Quinn sit with a gentle hand on her arm before sitting down next to her. Santana plops herself on Quinn’s other side with a soft huff. Kurt and Tina both stare at the market tents wistfully.

“If you guys want to go shop, don’t stay here on my account. I’m fine, I just need a minute,” Quinn says. Kurt and Tina hesitate for only a moment before squealing excitedly and telling her they’ll buy her something fun.

Santana suddenly scoots closer to Quinn, holding her purse up in front of her like a shield.

“What is wrong with you?” Quinn asks, shoving Santana playfully.

“That squirrel is like, accosting me,” Santana whines, pointing at the offending rodent with a well-manicured finger.

“People probably feed them,” Mike supplies.

“Yeah, I’ll say. This thing has fat rolls.”

The squirrel edges closer to Santana’s out-stretched hand, a hopeful look in its beady eyes. Santana jumps to her feet, swearing at the creature in Spanish before swiftly following the path Kurt and Tina took into the market. The squirrel eyes Quinn and Mike for a moment before wandering back toward a tree.

Quinn and Mike sit and watch Santana go. A few passersby give the pair curious looks. Quinn smiles awkwardly at him. They’ve run in the same circles since 8th grade when she became a cheerleader for his intramural peewee football team, but she isn’t sure she really considered him a friend until junior year of high school.

“How’s your back?” Mike asks in his quiet way.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t like the cold.”

Mike nods, his brow furrowing slightly. “Have you been trying those stretches I showed you?”

Quinn looks at him and wonders how she would have made it through their last few months in school together without his – and Brittany’s – help re-learning to dance. She smiles warmly at him despite the cold.  

“Yeah, every morning. They really help. There’s a drop-in yoga class on campus that I’ve been going to about three times a week, and my doctor cleared me to started jogging.” She pulls a face and Mike laughs.

 “Not a runner, huh?”

Quinn laughs with him. “No. But it helps, and I’m getting stronger. I’m hoping to be able to fit a dance class into my schedule next fall, but we’ll see.”

“Good.” Mike nods. They fall into silence, each scanning the tents in the distance for any sign of their friends.

“How are you liking Chicago?” Quinn asks after a moment. Mike responds immediately.

“I love it. It’s the perfect distance from Tina and my parents so that a surprise trip home isn’t totally out of the question, but it’s far enough away that I can really focus at school.” He smiles shyly. “And the city is incredible.”

“Maybe next year we can all stay with you for spring break,” Quinn teases with a bright smile.

“That’d be so much fun. Except you know Rachel won’t be able to stop comparing it with the big lights of Broadway,” Mike laughs, breaking out with the jazz hands.

Kurt and the girls return with armfuls of free samples and a few shopping bags. Kurt’s cell phone is pressed against his ear and Quinn can tell just from the look on his face that it’s Rachel on the other end. Tina passes around hot apple cider and Santana distributes the powdered apple cider donuts while they wait for Kurt and Rachel to finish bickering over their prospective dinner plans.

* * *

They’re barely halfway through dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant that Rachel insists is “to die for” and doesn’t card, and Rachel is practically sitting in Quinn’s lap, talking too loud and feeding her new boyfriend, Brody, with her fingers. The wine has made Rachel tipsy and clingy and Brody thinks it’s absolutely hilarious. She talks animatedly about the dream she and Kurt had of moving to New York and sharing a quaint loft apartment in a less-than-ideal neighborhood “for the romanticism of it all, to add to the mystique of living the Broadway dream.” Rachel laments the fact that that dream is put on hold until next year, as her dads insisted she live in the NYADA dorms during her freshman year.

Mike and Kurt are attempting to remember their harmonies from “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” which just makes Tina giggle uncontrollably. Santana is more subdued than the others, humming along with Kurt and Mike while sipping her wine. She appears to be deep in thought.

Quinn looks around her group of friends and understands the look on Santana’s face completely. Just a few short years ago, she and Santana were convinced they could rule a city like New York as easily as they ruled over McKinley High. The wine has made Quinn as introspective as it’s made Rachel uninhibited, and she thinks to herself that it’s not important how she ended up willingly hanging out in a New York restaurant with Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel and Tina Cohen-Chang.

“I don’t really care anymore how I got here, because I’m here and these are my friends, and my friends are all complete and utter dorks.”

The table goes quiet and Quinn realizes she said that out loud. Maybe she’s had more to drink than she thought. Tina attempts to stifle a giggle, which just makes Mike and Rachel laugh.

“Takes one to know one!” Tina teases, her giggle turning into a mirthful cackle.

“Yeah, Quinn, you’re one of us now,” Kurt laughs. “Though at least none of us ever dyed our hair pink: Major fashion faux pas, especially for someone with your bone structure.”

Quinn flushes, suddenly embarrassed at the reminder of her senior year rebellion.

Tina comes to her defense. “You’re wrong, Kurt. I liked the pink hair. It was hot.”

“No, I’m with Kurt,” Rachel chimes in. “No offense, Quinn, but I _hated_ your pink hair. I much prefer you blonde.”

“Yeah, you look like Grace Kelly’s hot granddaughter or something,” Brody adds enthusiastically.

“I wonder what it would look like blue?” Santana wonders absently, reaching up to twirl a lock of Quinn’s hair around her finger.

The conversation devolves from there. Santana and Tina debate the merits of Quinn with blue hair versus Quinn with pink hair, deciding that no matter what, Quinn should dye her hair again. Kurt supplies that there’s a Ricky’s around the corner, but Rachel puts an end to that plan when she mentions that the building in which the store is located had bedbugs.

Their server brings around another bottle of wine and, to Quinn’s relief, all talk of changing her look dies away. It’s another hour or so before the group finishes dinner. Rachel and Brody say their goodnights and head for Rachel’s dorm, while the rest of the group makes their way uptown to Kurt’s apartment and the promise of sleep.

* * *

The lights in Kurt’s living room are dim, casting a romantic glow to the room that doesn’t quite match the mirthful atmosphere. Tina is attempting to remember a joke but the wine from dinner has gone to her head and she keeps dissolving into fits of giggles. Mike just holds her in his lap and laughs along with her, while Kurt goads her into trying to tell the joke again and again. Santana watches them with a subdued smile.

“Thanks for letting us stay here, Kurt,” Santana says sincerely when their laughter has momentarily died down. Quinn watches her curiously, wondering where this newly mellowed Santana Lopez came from. The look on Kurt’s face says he’s thinking much of the same, and he begins to stutter over a reply when Santana bursts their collective bubble. “Your tiny apartment is _so_ much better than a swank New York City hotel.”

Kurt’s face falls and Quinn takes it upon herself to make amends, poking Santana in the ribs. “Ignore her, Kurt.”

“Yeah, man,” Mike chimes in. “It was really cool of you to invite us here.”

“Totally,” Tina agrees readily. “Though it was too bad Mercedes’s break isn’t until next week and Puck couldn’t get time off of work to fly out.”

“Well,” Kurt begins with a chuckle and a dramatic hand gesture that could be mistaken for a bow, “I missed my friends and I do live in the best city of all of us, so….”

“I must admit, I did enjoy the jealous looks on my teammates’ faces when I told them where I’d be spending my spring break,” Santana concedes, straightening in her seat on the pull-out couch. She fixes her gaze on Kurt. “Maybe if Vogue.com actually paid you, you could afford a bigger place next year.”

Kurt smiles a Cheshire grin, re-crossing his legs and pulling at the hems of his pajama pants. “Well ladies – and Mike – there is progress on that front.” Excitement buzzes through the room. “I have been discussing the prospect of remuneration with my boss and she said that she’d look into the possibility of hiring me on part-time, _and.…_ ” He draws his news out, making them wait for it.

Quinn is the first to crack. “And what?”

Kurt’s grin grows to a full smile and he does a little dance in his seat.

“Spit it out, Hummel!” Santana tosses a pillow at him.

“I got into NYU!”

Tina and Mike jump up in unison.

“What?!”

“Kurt, that’s awesome!”

“I know! I start at Tisch in August!” Kurt can’t help but let out a squeal when Mike picks him up in a hug and twirls him around. He gratefully accepts calmer hugs from Quinn, Santana and Tina before sitting back down.

“Speaking of college, Tina, have you figured out your plans for next year yet?” Kurt asks once the excitement of his announcement has died down.

Tina blushes and looks a little tongue-tied. Mike takes her hand, encouraging, “Tell them!”

“I got into Oberlin!” Tina beams.

“Tina, that’s amazing!” Quinn leans over to hug her. “Do you know what you’re going to study yet?”

“Drama. Definitely.”

Mike kisses his girlfriend sweetly, whispering “I’m so proud of you.”

“What about you, Mike? Any plans for the summer?” Quinn asks.

He smiles despite himself. “Uh, yeah. I got a job in Chicago at a dance studio as an instructor for their kids’ programs.”

Kurt claps happily. “Mike, that’s perfect for you!”

“I know! I’m excited. What about you, Quinn?” 

“Yeah, are you gonna stay in Connecticut, or come back to Lima?” Tina adds.

“Neither, actually. I, um, I might be here.”

Kurt gasps, his face a picture of excitement. “Really?” he breathes.

Santana turns her head, sizing up what Quinn has just said. “What? Why?”

Quinn shifts in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable now that the spotlight has been turned on her. “I don’t want to say too much about it because it’s still up in the air, but I applied for an internship with Legal Momentum?” She plays with her hands nervously, picking at her nails and rubbing her palms together. “It’s part of the National Organization for Women. It used to be called the Legal Defense and Education Fund. I should know by the end of the month whether I got it or not.”

 “Quinn, that’s awesome!” Tina exclaims, hugging her happily.

Kurt is beside himself. “You MUST stay here if you get it!”

Quinn can only laugh at his enthusiasm. “Thanks, Kurt, that’s really sweet of you, but –”  

“No buts. It’s official. I’m already visualizing the redecorations!”

Santana leans over, flicking a lock of Quinn’s hair with her fingers. “Welcome to your summer, Q.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “And what about _your_ summer, Santana? More girls in short skirts than you can handle?”

Santana crosses her arms defiantly. “I’m sorry, did it just get chilly in here?”

Kurt sits back down on the edge of the pull-out couch. “Ladies, calm down. Satan, summer plans. Spill.”

Santana sits back against the couch, re-crossing her arms and looking more than a little put-out. Quinn is closest to her and if asked, would swear she sees a blush creeping up the other woman’s cheeks.

“Ugh, fine. While you losers are _working_ , I will be backpacking with my roommate, Michaela.” Her confession is met with a stunned silence.

Mike is the first to attempt a response, stuttering “You… backpacking?”

Kurt nods, his eyes wide. “I must concur with Mike.”

“Ugh, ignore them, Santana. Where are you guys going?” Tina asks encouragingly.  

 “We’re still working on that. She wants to go to Europe, but, just, no.” Santana closes her eyes with a slight shake of her head, as if dismissing the idea completely. “I’m campaigning for Chile.”

“Why Chile?” Quinn asks, intrigued.

 “You guys remember David Martinez?”

Quinn and Kurt answer immediately and simultaneously. “The hottest man alive? Yes.”

They giggle like schoolgirls and Santana wonders at the last time she remembers Quinn looking so carefree. Maybe never.

“What about him?” Tina wonders, breaking Santana from her thoughts.

“Oh, um, his family is from Chile. He told me a lot about it while we were rehearsing ‘La Isla Bonita’ last year and I’ve been wanting to visit ever since.”

That seems to spark the conversation anew and they all chatter excitedly about each other’s plans until Kurt begs off anymore bonding time for some much-needed beauty sleep. Santana takes the opportunity to gloat at Mike and Tina about the fact that she and Quinn have co-opted the pull-out couch. She stretches for an obscenely long time, grunting and groaning as she feigns getting comfortable.

“Man, this is the _best_ pull-out couch ever, right Quinn? Good thing we replied to Kurt’s invitation right away.” Santana winks in Quinn’s direction but keeps her gaze firmly on Mike and Tina unrolling the sleeping bags borrowed from Kurt.

Mike doesn’t miss a beat, ribbing Santana right back. “The pull-out couch might be comfier than the floor, Santana, but I’m way luckier. You know why?” He doesn’t wait for a response before dramatically throwing an arm around Tina’s shoulders. “Because _I_ have a _much_ hotter bedmate!” He proves it by passionately kissing a giggling, squirming Tina.

Quinn gasps an affronted "Hey!" and Mike apologizes a little sheepishly. "No offense, Quinn."

Santana just rolls her eyes at him. "Whatever, Boy Chang. No offense, Tina, but blondes are infinitely sexier. I got the better deal all around." She wraps an arm around Quinn, smiling smugly.

Shaking her head, Quinn peels Santana’s arm off of her shoulders and stands. “Let’s all just go to bed. It’s been a long day and some of us have flights to catch in the morning.” Tina agrees while Mike and Santana continue eyeing each other. Quinn flips off the lights and makes her way back to her side of the couch. As she lies down and pulls the covers over her legs she hears Tina whisper to Mike, “I told you not to wait until you got your dad’s permission!”

Quinn rolls on her side, studying Santana’s profile in the dim light of street lamps illuminating the windows. She takes in the angular nose, the full lips, the soft cheeks that hide uneven dimples. Santana stares at the ceiling, her breathing even and her brow furrowed. The darkness seems to have subdued her: She is deep in thought again, all thoughts of teasing and gloating forgotten. Quinn reaches out and takes Santana’s hand, effectively getting her attention.

Santana turns her head and smiles softly at her. “Hey.”

A thought occurs to Quinn and she smiles back shyly. “Will you write to me, while you’re gone?”

Santana’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “Um, there’s this new invention you may have heard of called the internet?” she laughs.

Quinn squeezes her hand. “I don’t want a Facebook update, Santana.”

Santana rolls her eyes but acquiesces when she sees the serious look on Quinn’s face. “Fine. One letter.”

Quinn smiles brightly. “Thank you.”

The noises of the Upper West Side at night begin to filter up to Kurt’s apartment. The steady rhythm of passing cars outside lulls the room into blissful calm. Santana watches Quinn with eyes that shine like obsidian jewels. Even as apprehension blooms in her chest, Quinn reaches out and brushes a fingertip along Santana’s jaw. She feels swept up in the other woman’s orbit, lost in her gaze, and she leans forward almost unconsciously. She licks her lips before pressing them against Santana’s, her heart fluttering in her chest. After only a moment Quinn pulls away slowly, her eyes hooded.

Santana stares at her curiously. “What was that for?” she asks, her voice soft.

Quinn smiles shyly, eyes dipping beneath long lashes. “Is it okay if I don’t know?” she whispers in response. Santana nods, her lips fixed in a permanent smile.

She leans forward, kissing Quinn languidly. The sour taste of alcohol-induced dehydration gives way to the slick warmth of Santana’s tongue. A hand, hot and clammy, grips Quinn’s hip as she slides her fingers through Santana’s hair. Quinn’s body flushes with need but this is new, and they’re not alone. She pulls back reluctantly, stroking her palm against Santana’s cheek, down her neck to rest lightly on the other woman’s collarbone. Santana shakes her head with a playful smile and pulls Quinn to her. They fall asleep wrapped around each other.

* * *

Kurt wakes up first the next morning and after a pit-stop in the bathroom to take care of his impatient bladder, he pads softly into the living room. The sight that greets him makes him smile in confused wonder.

Mike and Tina are still sound asleep, wrapped around each other on their spot on the floor near the kitchen entrance, but it is Quinn and Santana that pique his curiosity. Quinn is on her back, semi-awake and watching the sky turn from a hazy gray to the pinks and yellows of dawn through the window above her head. Santana is still asleep, wrapped tightly around her, head resting on Quinn’s chest with a leg slung over Quinn’s hips.   

Quinn notices Kurt watching from the edge of the room and smiles up at him, absently nuzzling her cheek against the top of Santana’s head.

“Morning,” she whispers, detangling enough of herself from Santana’s firm grip to roll onto her side. Kurt perches gingerly on the arm of the couch as Santana curls around Quinn’s back, her left arm gripping tightly to Quinn’s midsection. She mumbles something unintelligible but stays asleep.

“Morning,” Kurt whispers back, an amused smile on his face. “Who knew Santana was such a cuddler? I mean besides…” He lowers his voice, risking a glance over Quinn’s shoulder at the sleeping woman in question before finishing the thought. “… _Brittany_.”

Santana shifts against Quinn’s back and Quinn’s eyes narrow.

“Shh! Santana is _hell_ first thing in the morning! If you wake her up, I’m going to throw something at you, Hummel.” Her threat is an idle one and they both know it.

Kurt just keeps smiling that Cheshire grin and leans down to kiss her forehead. “I’m happy for you, Quinn.”

She blinks at him, her brain not quite awake enough to process what he’s implying.

“You want breakfast yet?” Kurt stands up suddenly, his grin turning impish. “I bought this ridiculously expensive Amish bacon at the farmer’s market just for you,” he singsongs, his slippers swishing softly against the wooden floor as he retreats to the kitchen.

Quinn settles back against her pillow, torn between mouth-watering bacon, and Santana’s warm body and the pull of sleep. Eventually, as her breathing evens out in time with Santana’s, sleep wins.


	5. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all that have been reading and reviewing! This chapter is where it all started, the first one I wrote actual words for when this story first started taking over my brain, and I'm pretty proud of it. I hope you like it, too! Chapter 6 will be a little bit of a wait, as it is still mostly notes, but I'm making progress, so stay tuned over the next two weeks or so.

Two hours into the first day of Quinn’s summer internship, she realizes that she’s not used to making decisions for herself.

At age twelve, after the early stages of puberty had been even less kind than childhood development, she changed everything about the way she looked. Not in stages, like her classmates, but all at once: medicine for acne that would probably go away on its own so that her sister would stop making fun of her; an extreme diet and exercise plan to lose the baby fat that had plagued her since toddler-hood and fit her father’s ideal; a new hair color and even a new nose so her grandparents would stop asking her mom, jokingly of course, if Quinn’s real father wasn’t maybe the mailman. She even stopped reading so much, dumbed herself down in class enough to make sure the boys weren’t threatened but awed by her. By the time she entered eighth grade, Lucy Quinn Fabray was a brand new person.

She told herself at the time that it was all part of a strategic plan to put herself in a place of power over her peers, to rule with an iron fist and a golden smile. Her brief but terrible reign ended when she got pregnant, another decision dictated by someone else’s hand. She had done what she was told, slept with Noah Puckerman because that’s what popular girls do, the _real_ popular girls like Brittany and Santana, not imposters like Quinn. But as much as she hated the way her former subjects ostracized her, looking back she realizes she never felt more like herself in high school than in those eight months. As lost and adrift as she felt, she allowed herself to be just that: herself. Still, as soon as Beth was born, Quinn Fabray, head Cheerio and future prom queen made a remarkable and swift comeback. Playing a part had become easier than being herself.

Now, listening to her co-workers talk about white privilege and male privilege while they quote books and authors and activists she’s barely even heard of, Quinn wonders what any of it was for. As powerful as she felt at the time, she had still been playing by someone else’s rules and living up to someone else’s ideal.

Quinn finds herself paying closer attention to these new co-workers, committing those book titles and names to memory. Thoughts she’s barely entertained since taking first-level psychology and women’s studies race around her brain like cars on a track. She realizes that maybe, sometimes, it’s not so bad to be adrift, and that maybe it’s time for another change, from the inside out.

* * *

The first letter from Santana arrives three weeks later.

Quinn comes home exhausted every day. While Kurt and Rachel have adapted to the fast pace of the big city like pros, Quinn can’t quite get used to the frenetic rhythm. She feels more lost than she thought she would and doesn’t understand why everyone is always in a rush and yet, at the same time, everything takes so damn long.

Case in point, her internship office is two and a half miles away, and it’s taken her over an hour to get home. It’s nearly eight o’clock, she still has work to do and she hasn’t even had dinner yet. Still, she’s glad for the opportunity to work for such an important cause, and the fact that her employers allow her to do actual work, unlike some of the classmates at Yale she’s kept in touch with who describe their roles as summer interns as glorified PAs.

As tired as she is, Quinn is happy with the way her summer is turning out. She’s been living with Kurt for about a month and feels like she’s making real progress, not only at work, but on herself. She’s also grateful for the highly regimented routine of daily exercise and healthy eating she created for herself so many years ago, because without it she worries that city life will overwhelm her. Her running clothes and shoes are waiting for her in a neat pile at the near end of Kurt’s pull-out couch, now her bed. She needs the hour of jogging and yoga every day to give her mind a chance to process the day and begin to unwind.

Quinn sets her purse on the coffee table – which also serves as her desk – and slips off her flats before noticing the stack of mail on the table addressed to her. Kurt must’ve had a late day today if he was home when the mail was delivered. Quinn can’t keep track of his schedule on the best of days and this is certainly not her best day. She mentally allows herself five minutes to look over the magazines and credit card solicitations, as long as she remains standing. If she sits, she knows she’ll stay that way and skip her evening run, and if she skips her evening run one more night this week she won’t be able to sleep.

Quinn bends down to pick up the stack of mail, tossing three magazines and two credit card solicitations back on the table in quick succession. A letter in an international envelope with postage she doesn’t recognize is all that’s left and she frowns down at it.

The simple, slightly slanted block print on the outside of the envelope is familiar and the corners of Quinn’s mouth perk up in realization. Against her better judgment, Quinn perches on the edge of the couch and carefully tears open the letter. It’s short, not even a full page, and Quinn notices the date in the top right corner is from a week and a half ago.

Quinn isn’t sure what she was expecting in a letter from Santana, but the simple story of Santana and Michaela backpacking towards a small town along the northern coast of Chile, trying to beat an impending rainstorm while Michaela practices her Spanish phrases is not it.

_As the rain begins to pour, the two friends enter the edge of the town. Soaked and chilled to the bone, they are approached by a middle-aged woman with six mouths to feed at home_.

Quinn can practically hear Santana’s hopeful voice in her head as she reads the last line, over and over again.

_She knows she shouldn’t, but the smokin’ hot cheerleader hopes the old woman has room at her table for two more._

_-Santana_

Quinn stares at the letter for several long minutes, flipping the page over to see if she’d missed something on the other side the first time. Seeing only blank paper, she shakes her head, setting the letter down and eyeing it warily as she moves to change into her running gear. Hard as she’s tried, she’s not sure she’ll ever understand Santana.

* * *

The second letter comes only four days after the first. The single sheet of beige paper has just one sentence of Santana’s slanted print:

_Quinn,_

_Remind me to show you the sunset when I get home._

_-Santana_

* * *

After an unexpected twelve-hour workday, exacerbated by an almost-two-hour lunch with Rachel, Quinn isn’t sure she can handle reading another weird letter from Santana, as much as she wants to. She takes a bubble bath in Kurt’s tiny tub (she’ll never be comfortable calling anything in this apartment hers, especially not while she’s sleeping in his living room) instead of going for a run, and orders Chinese food for dinner.

As she’s poking at the last few pieces of General Tso’s chicken and groaning at herself for overeating, she notices the letter again. She shakes her head and struggles to her feet, clearing the table of takeout containers and putting the leftovers in the refrigerator. She pulls out the bed and climbs under the sheets, reveling in their cool comfort. The air conditioner whirrs in the window behind her head as she stares up at the ceiling. It’s just blurry enough without her contacts in that she can let her eyes stay unfocused and her mind wanders.

Sleep comes more easily than she expects, and when she wakes up several hours later, she’s surprised that the light is still on and Kurt hasn’t come home yet. She slips out of bed and pads down the hall to the bathroom, relieving her bladder before going to the sink to splash cool water on her cheeks. She checks her phone as soon as she’s back in the living room and breathes a sigh of relief at the text from Kurt letting her know that he partied a little too hard at a work function downtown and is spending the night at Rachel’s dorm.

Quinn is about to shut off the light when Santana’s unopened letter catches her attention. Rolling her eyes at herself, she picks it up and opens it, knowing she won’t sleep again until she’s read it.

It’s longer than the first two, nearly four pages, plus some scribbling in the margins. Parts of it look like they’ve gotten wet, and Quinn doesn’t want to dwell on how or why. Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Quinn slips her glasses onto the bridge of her nose and skims through the letter before reading it in full, noting that whole sentences are written in Spanish. She finds herself using her phone to translate unfamiliar words like _borracha_ and _orgullo._

The letter reads like an apology, though Quinn isn’t sure who exactly Santana is apologizing to. The best she can piece together is that Santana and Michaela got drunk in a small town outside of Valparaíso and Santana was feeling nostalgic. Parts of the letter read like a laundry list of all the horrible things Santana did, with and without Quinn, to others in high school.

Quinn gives up trying to translate all of the Spanish words and phrases and just reads, letting the rhythm of the dueling languages take over her brain. It’s not until she reads her daughter’s name in the last sentence that she finds herself groping blindly for her phone again, but Google Translate isn’t quite up to the task. Quinn reluctantly gets out of bed and tiptoes to Kurt’s room, glad that he’s spending the night elsewhere. A quick search of Kurt’s bookshelf produces the Spanish-English dictionary he bought at the end of June when he was trying to flirt with that Puerto Rican ballet dancer he met in Starbucks.

Plucking the book from the shelf, Quinn walks slowly back to her bed, and the letter. Heart hammering in her chest, she flips through the pages of the dictionary, matching word for word from the letter until she’s sure, doubly, triply sure that she has the right translation.

_Most of all, I’m sorry for everything I said about Beth._

_-Santana_

Quinn sets the letter on the table with a shaky hand. She pulls her glasses off, placing them carefully on top of the crinkled pages. The first tears drip from her chin.

Quinn rolls onto her side and cries herself to sleep.

* * *

“You got another love letter from Santana,” Kurt singsongs from the kitchen. Quinn shuts the door behind her and closes her eyes, steeling herself for what, she’s not sure. She glares at the international envelope tormenting her from the coffee table and sets her purse on top of it, hiding it from view. Kurt walks into the living room with a pint of mango sorbet and a spoon, frowning at his roommate’s actions. “You’re not going to open it?”

“No. And stop calling them love letters.” Quinn scowls and picks up her running gear, heading toward the bathroom to change. “I’m going for a run.”

Kurt waits until he hears the door click closed to move Quinn’s purse and pick up the letter. He holds it up to the window, trying in vain to read the letter through the envelope using the sunlight streaming in from outside. He yelps when Quinn suddenly reappears, shirtless and furious, and snatches the letter out of his hand. “Don’t you dare, Hummel.”

The letter sits unopened, tucked between the radiator and the wall behind the couch until the night before Quinn has to go back to Connecticut. Kurt’s already passed out in his bed and Quinn is more than a little tipsy. She vows to herself never to let Rachel mix the drinks again as she sways and flops face first on the bed. Her bleary eyes catch sight of the blue and red edge of the envelope and she reaches for it. She tears it open without thinking, but anger builds in her chest at the sight of Santana’s too-familiar handwriting.

Quinn skims the first few lines and realizes that, like the first letter, it’s a story. She rolls onto her back and waits for the room to stop spinning to read further.

This story is about an earthquake and a mudslide, about lost possessions and found friends. She understands more of the Spanish this time. The tone of this letter is different, more whimsical and wistful than the previous three, and though Quinn meant to be mad at Santana for the last letter, she finds she doesn’t have it in her. Her heart is heavy as she comes to the end of the page, once again fixated on the last line.

_She’s lost a lot in this adventure but gained so much more. It’s hard to think about returning to the real world; she’d rather stay and play, but she knows that she is meant to come home to you._

Santana doesn’t sign the letter this time and Quinn has to skip back to the top to see that there was no greeting, either. Out of habit, she turns the page over to see if she’s missed anything on the back of the single sheet, and as if Santana can read her mind thousands of miles away, she sees she has. Written on the back of the letter is a simple phrase that makes Quinn’s heart leap into her throat:

_For Q. Love, S._


	6. Labor Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This chapter took on a life of its own. 
> 
> Thanks to all of those who've read and reviewed and given kudos. I don't think I'd have been able to finish this without you! Let me know what you think of this last chapter.

The Saturday before Labor Day is sunny and dry. The heat makes its presence known, but it’s bearable with a light breeze. Burt Hummel’s backyard is bustling with activity, filled with laughter and the smell of barbecue. Burgers and hot dogs sizzle on the grill, and somewhere down the block the sounds of an impromptu baseball game ring out into the hot afternoon.

After missing each other at spring break and living such separate lives over the summer, the New Directions, old and new, have gathered together for the long weekend in Lima. Sam, Puck and Mike are in the deep end of the pool, having some sort of sword-fighting contest with pool noodles, while Sugar, Rachel, Tina and Brittany watch from the shallow end. Kurt and Blaine sit together at the edge of the pool, their bare feet skimming the surface of the water. Artie is just behind them talking with Joe and some of the new kids about the finer points of boy band hair.

 Quinn watches from a lounge chair on the lawn. The humidity from the grass makes her legs sweat uncomfortably and she longs to strip down to her bikini and join the others in the pool, but the stiffness in her hip gives her pause. Shifting against the cloth of her seat, she fingers the hem of her skirt. Her fingertips graze scar tissue on her upper thigh and she pulls on her skirt to cover it. Her mind wanders to the last time she wore any kind of swim-wear in public.

A hot, brutally humid week in May had Quinn and some of her classmates skipping Friday classes for a weekend down the shore, cooling off at a busy beach on Long Island Sound. She had forgotten, briefly, that hers was no longer the paragon of a beach body and the stares, from friends and strangers alike, took her by surprise. Quinn spent the rest of that hot, humid day in a baggy t-shirt, feeling awful. Today, though, Quinn realizes no one stares. It helps that aside from a few of the lower classmen, everyone knows where her scars came from.

Still, she stays on the periphery, stuck in the lounge chair out of stubbornness and fear, the loose skirt covering the worst of the scarring on her leg where the doctors had to put her hip back together. She is dragged away from what is quickly becoming a pity party of one when an achingly familiar name is brought up around the pool.

“Hey, where’s Santana? Is she coming?” Puck is asking, the noodle-war momentarily forgotten while Sam is out of the pool getting a soda. Mike swims lazily over to Tina.

“She RSVP’d to the Facebook invitation Kurt sent,” Blaine supplies, looking hopeful.

Rachel turns to Brittany, who is flicking the surface of the water with her fingers. “Where was she again?” Brittany purses her lips and shakes her head.

Quinn decides to inject herself into the conversation and save them all from speculation. “Mexico,” she offers simply.

Brittany’s brow furrows in confusion. This is new information to her. “Mexico?”

Everyone turns to look at Quinn and she wonders when she became uncomfortable being the center of attention. She shifts in her seat and adjusts her sunglasses as she faces the pool. “Yeah, her mom’s sister has a summer home in Acapulco. She decided to visit on her way home from Chile.”

The group absorbs this information in a bit of stunned silence and Quinn thinks back to the last time she noticed an update on Santana’s Facebook page.

_June 9, 2013: I’m leavin’ on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again._

“Santana was in Chile?” Puck asks, breaking Quinn out of her thoughts.

All eyes are still turned her way and she silently wishes Tina or Mike or Kurt would help her out. They at least know this much of the story, but they seem to have abandoned the conversation for each other. Tina is kissing Mike furiously, forcing Brittany, Sugar and Rachel to drift deeper into the pool, and Kurt and Blaine look like they’re not far behind the other couple.  

Quinn sighs. “Yeah, she, um. She and a friend from Louisville were backpacking there in June.”

Sugar laughs, loud and abrasive. “Santana went backpacking?!”

“Ah, I haven’t even made my entrance yet and already I’m the center of attention. Just the way I like it.”

Santana stands at the edge of the Hummel-Hudson backyard, a bag of chips in one hand and the other resting on the gate. She looks genuinely amused and Quinn has to wonder how long she’s been listening.

“Hola, girlfriend!” Rachel calls from her spot in the pool while Sam runs over to hug the new arrival.

“Oh good, Rachel’s here,” Santana quips, arm slung over Sam’s shoulders. She winks at Quinn and allows herself to be led through the yard and into the party. Puck hauls himself out of the pool to hug her, soaking her front as he does so. She just kisses him sloppily on the cheek and laughs. The others clamber out of the pool and Santana makes her way around, giving hugs and hellos, before making her way eventually to Quinn. Quinn stands a little shakily, covering a wince with a smile.

Quinn takes in Santana’s appearance. Santana wears a simple red bikini top and cut-off jean short-shorts that show the bottom edges of the pocket linings. Black-framed sunglasses hide her eyes, and her skin is a deep tan, made darker by a summer spent outdoors. Her hair hangs in long, loose curls over her shoulders. The ends skim her elbows, catching in the wind.

 By contrast, Quinn feels somewhat self-conscious and over-dressed. She’s in her own bikini, the same black-and-white one she’s had since the summer after Beth was born, but she covers it in a fitted yellow tank-top and flowing white skirt that reaches her knees. Her hair is short again, cut just a week ago. It lands just past her ears, and tickles her neck as it moves with the warm summer breeze.

Quinn looks down, suddenly shy, and studies their feet. “I got your letters.” She doesn’t know what else to say.

 “Yeah?”

Quinn risks a glance up. Santana smiles and tilts her head, squinting in the sun despite the sunglasses. The breath catches in Quinn’s throat and her mouth is suddenly dry. “Do I get a hug, too?” she manages.

Santana nods and pulls Quinn into her arms. “Missed you, Q.”

Santana is pulled away all too quickly. Their friends want stories and Santana is happy, if a little reluctant, to oblige. Quinn just watches her, again on the periphery. She listens to the rise and fall of Santana’s voice more than her words, and remembers the letters folded neatly into the pages of her journal.

 As focus begins to drift around the pool and the conversation turns to everyone else’s summers, Santana’s gaze falls on Quinn. She pulls her sunglasses off and the intense look in her eyes pin Quinn to her seat. It’s a mistake, Quinn realizes too late, for Santana to lose track of Puck. He appears behind her with a smirk and in one fluid motion hefts her over his shoulder like a caveman. Quinn hears a string of Spanish curses that she prides herself on understanding just as strong hands slide under her knees and behind her shoulders, lifting her out of her chair. She twists in the strong grip just enough to catch a flash of blond hair.

“Sam Evans, put me down!”

Santana’s shrieks of laughter are abruptly cut off by an enormous splash and Quinn is suddenly airborne.

The moment Quinn's back hits the water, all hell breaks loose. Santana has somehow managed to pull Puck into the pool with her. Sam has jumped in on his own.

At the same time, Finn returns from the grocery store with Carole. He immediately abandons the bag of ice he was carrying and jumps into the fray. Brittany and Rachel team up to try and dunk him underwater while Tina, Sugar and Kurt chase Blaine and Mike around the shallow end, splashing them at every chance.

Quinn laughs as Santana takes on Puck and Sam at the same time. An abandoned pool noodle floats by and Quinn swims over to it, her skirt billowing around her waist like a deformed mushroom cap. Quinn decides that while Santana could easily take the boys on, it's more fun if they work together.

Unfortunately the pool war is short-lived: Burt calls out the first round of hotdogs and hamburgers soon after it starts, and hungry stomachs win out.

* * *

It’s later. The sky bleeds orange through puffy clouds and the heat of the day has grown stagnant with the coming sunset. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Quinn and Santana share the same lawn chair Quinn occupied earlier, enjoying the quiet now that the underclassmen have gone home and the others have retreated indoors to the promise of movies and karaoke. Santana leans her head on Quinn’s shoulder and reaches for her hand. Quinn watches as she laces their fingers together and lets her mind drift.

“You know, I thought I’d miss Brittany more?”

Quinn stiffens. It’s a statement more than a question and Santana squeezes her hand gently. Her voice is thick. “We talk still, text. But I didn’t even tell her I was leaving the country.” Quinn frowns and rubs her thumb along the back of Santana’s hand. “I missed _you_.” Santana emphasizes the last word like it’s a surprise, some new revelation that she’s only just figured out. She shifts, burrowing her face against Quinn’s neck, dropping hot kisses along the exposed skin.

“Santana,” Quinn whispers, breath rushing past her lips. Her side is hot where Santana presses into her. Sweat beads in the crook of her elbow and the small of her back.

The first stars of evening wink in the sky above them, glowing brightly in the graying sky. Quinn’s eyes flutter closed as Santana pulls away. She can feel her friend studying her face and her cheeks burn.

“Truth or dare, Quinn,” Santana breathes. The heat of Santana’s words licks at Quinn’s ear and she shivers.

“What?” she laughs softly.  She opens her eyes and focuses on Santana’s smiling lips. Santana shrugs a response and averts her eyes. Quinn’s smile shows all of her teeth. “Seriously? You hate that game.”

“Yeah, well, we’re at a post-high school high school party. Somebody’s gotta play it. So what’ll it be, blondie?” Santana sits up and her face is suddenly illuminated by the lights of the house behind them. Quinn smiles.

“Dare.”

Santana studies her thoughtfully and smiles in disbelief. Her pupils dilate in the artificial glow. “Kiss me.”

Quinn leans up, her heart pounding in her ears, and does what she’s told. The kiss is soft and gentle and over far too quickly but they’re both out of breath. Quinn closes her eyes and leans back against the chair.

“Truth or dare?” she whispers, licking her lips.

Santana responds without hesitation. “Truth.”

Laughter erupts from inside the house and a heavy bass beat rumbles across the lawn.

“Why did you write me those letters?” Quinn opens her eyes and watches Santana carefully.

“Because you asked me to. Truth or –”

“Dare.”

Santana quirks an eyebrow. “Kiss me.”

Quinn surges up, capturing Santana’s lips in a brutal kiss. Her right hand snakes along Santana’s jaw and she rakes her nails against Santana’s scalp, eliciting a sharp moan. Santana slides her tongue past Quinn’s lips. Quinn tastes cherry soda and the pickles from Santana’s cheeseburger. Santana’s hands stroke her hips through her skirt and Quinn gasps. They pull away abruptly.

“Truth or dare?” Quinn breathes, her chest tight and desire coiling low in her belly.

“Dare.” Santana’s eyes are impossibly dark.

“Take me home?”

* * *

After a year away from home, Santana’s bedroom remains surprisingly unchanged. The walls are still covered in matte black floral wallpaper and the furniture is unmoved. Most of the wall decorations have been taken down, however, and the room isn’t as cluttered as Quinn remembers, though Santana’s suitcases sitting in the far corner are overflowing with rumpled clothing. Quinn sits stiffly on the four-post bed, nervously watching Santana adjust the lights. Her back aches from her rigid posture but she attempts to smile at Santana when she turns around.

“Hey, you okay?” Santana asks softly, sensing Quinn’s discomfort.

Quinn nods quickly, averting her eyes.

“That doesn’t look okay. Are you freaking out?” Santana’s voice is tight as she sits down next to Quinn on the bed. Her thigh presses against Quinn’s left hip and Quinn sucks in a breath at the sudden heat seeping through the thin material of her skirt. “Quinn.”

Heat flares in Quinn’s chest, radiating up to her cheeks and she bites her lip, ashamed. A mirthless chuckle escapes her throat and she stares at her hands clasped in her lap. “It’s my stupid back,” she mumbles, worrying her lip between her teeth.

“What?” Santana reaches out and takes one of Quinn’s hands between her own, kneading the meat of her palm with her fingers. “What does your back have to do with anything?”

Quinn sighs, brushing the hair out of her eyes with a shaking hand. “It’s killing me.”

“Quinn….”

“It’s usually fine, as long as I don’t sit in one position for too long, but I had to drive out to Cleveland with my mom yesterday to visit my sister. It’s three hours each way, plus having to deal with both of them making comments all day about how I’ve ‘let myself go’ just because I’m not starving myself like I did in high school, and then with the pool earlier and...” Quinn swallows angrily at the lump that has formed in her throat. “Sorry.” She doesn’t want to cry over this. “I’m sorry, San, you shouldn’t have to deal with my crap.”

Santana studies Quinn’s profile in the soft light and squeezes her hand. “Lie back on the bed.”

Jarred out of her thoughts by Santana’s sudden command, Quinn just stares with wide eyes. “W-what?”

“Lie down, on your stomach.” Santana’s tone is gentler. “Here, Q. Take this off. I’ll give you a back rub.” She untangles their hands and tugs at the hem of Quinn’s tank top.

“Would you?” Quinn sighs in relief, obligingly stripping off her shirt.

Santana smiles a Cheshire grin. “Totally.” She tugs at the string of Quinn’s bikini top. “This needs to go, too.”

The string gives way easily to Santana’s fingers, the knot at the base of Quinn’s neck coming loose almost instantly. Santana runs her fingertips delicately over the exposed skin of Quinn’s back, pushing the garment out of her way. She tosses the bikini top beside them and gently pushes Quinn down onto the bed. Quinn settles onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillows until she can’t breathe. She turns her head to one side, sucking in a breath just as Santana begins to run her hands between Quinn’s shoulder blades. Goosebumps erupt across the expanse of Quinn’s back and she shivers.

Several moments pass before Santana begins to work out the myriad of knots in Quinn’s back. She applies firm pressure to each bunched mass of muscle before rubbing them out in slow circles. The stiffness in Quinn’s back begins to melt away under Santana’s skillful hands and she moans softly in appreciation before she can stop herself. Santana lets it go, choosing to roll Quinn onto her back rather than comment on the sound. Quinn looks up at her in surprise as Santana begins to first knead her shoulders before moving down to her biceps, forearms and hands. She slides her hands into Quinn’s, lacing their fingers together, and leans forward. Her dark hair falls around them and she smiles down at Quinn before brushing soft kisses along Quinn’s collarbones. 

Quinn grips Santana’s hands like a lifeline. She swallows a moan as Santana moves lower, bypassing her heaving breasts to plant soft, wet kisses along Quinn’s belly. Quinn watches with curious eyes: Santana seems to fixate on a spot before caressing it with her lips and tongue. Butterflies erupt in Quinn’s stomach when she realizes that Santana is focusing on the stretch marks and scars marring her skin. She tries to squirm away but Santana squeezes her hands.

“Don’t.” Santana stares up at Quinn, untangling their fingers to brush her hands along Quinn’s ribs. Quinn can’t hold her gaze.

“Just… let me get a shirt or something.” Pulling her hands away, Quinn crosses her arms over her midsection as she tries to sit up.

A hand on Quinn’s hip stops her. “Do you want me to stop?” Santana’s gaze is steady.

Quinn bites her lip and shakes her head, no.

Santana watches Quinn’s face for a long moment, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles against Quinn’s sides. She smiles reassuringly and reaches for Quinn’s hands again, gently moving them away from Quinn’s stomach. Santana slides along the bed until her face is level with Quinn’s. She presses a gentle but firm kiss to Quinn’s lips. “Then let me.” There is a question in her eyes and Quinn nods in response, relaxing against the pillows.

Santana kisses her again before moving back down the bed. She settles between Quinn’s legs, arms crossed over Quinn’s hips. She rests her chin on her hands and smiles up at Quinn.

“My cousin Cristina had a baby in March. I got to see him for the first time when I was in Mexico,” Santana says, her smile growing.

Quinn smiles back. She’s a little confused at the turn in conversation but doesn’t interrupt.

“Cristina’s a natural mom, but she was so self-conscious about her body when we went to the beach. It pissed off my tía Inez, but I didn’t really understand why until she got all of us girls together. She said, ‘ _Mijas, escúchenme._ Stretch marks are not ugly. On a woman who’s carried a child, they’re her tiger stripes and she’s earned them.’” Santana pauses, frowning down at her hands. Quinn just watches her, holding back tears, afraid to make a sound beyond her stuttered breathing.

“I’m not always good with words, not when they count like my tía is.” Santana bites her lip and looks up at Quinn through long lashes. “But I know I said awful things to you when you were pregnant, and even after Beth was born, and I…. You earned these.” Santana kisses the skin just below Quinn’s belly button.

Tears slip down Quinn’s cheeks but her voice is steady when she speaks. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Santana begins. She clears her throat. “I know it’s cheesy or whatever, but I figured…” She trails off and starts to sit up, suddenly awkward and shy. Quinn’s hand on her wrist stops her.

“That’s… actually really sweet of you, Santana.” It’s Quinn’s turn to smile reassuringly. “I’m, um, I’m just feeling a little… exposed?” Her eyes dip to her bare chest and then back up to Santana’s face. Her cheeks are ruddy and her lower lip quivers.

Realization dawns on Santana’s features and she sits up hurriedly. “Oh! Well, I can certainly –” She reaches behind her back with a wicked gleam in her eyes and pulls at her bikini top.

“Santana!” Quinn laughs, clutching a pillow in front of herself. “What are you doing?”

“If you feel exposed, that means _I_ am overdressed,” she states with a flourish. With a seductive grin, she begins pulling down the halter neck of the bikini top slowly.

“Santana, don’t you dare!” Quinn’s breath catches in her throat as her meager protest falls on deaf ears. The red bikini top joins hers on the edge of the bed and Santana catches Quinn staring.

“They’re nice, huh?” Santana palms one full breast, the nipple straining in the cool air of her bedroom.

Quinn squeezes her eyes closed but she’s smiling. “Santana, what are we doing?”

“Don’t change the subject, Quinn, I saw you staring.”

“Yes, fine,” Quinn concedes, blushing profusely. “They’re lovely.”

“Damn right, they are,” Santana boasts, settling back on her heels. She lets out a slow breath of air, brow furrowing. “Best money can buy.”

Santana’s tone has suddenly gone from playful to serious and Quinn opens her eyes, curious. She watches Santana’s face, sees the slow smile perking the corners of Santana’s mouth and hinting at dimples in her cheeks. Quinn lets her eyes wander south, taking in the firm, round swell of each breast and the puckered skin around each erect nipple.

“They’re nice to touch, too.” Santana’s voice is husky, thick with arousal.

Quinn stares, eyes wide, as Santana reaches for her hand, inching closer. When Santana’s fingers wrap around Quinn’s wrist, she pauses, waiting. Quinn’s gaze drifts back up to Santana’s face, sees the hope and apprehension in her eyes. Quinn matches her steady gaze in response. Santana brings Quinn’s hand up to cup her left breast and both of them sigh at the contact. Quinn smiles, a little unsure but bold in her touch. She cups Santana, running the pad of her thumb over an erect nipple and squeezing lightly.

“They feel like the real thing, huh?” Santana’s voice is low.

Quinn watches her hand in fascination, as if she can’t believe she’s actually touching Santana this way. Her lips twitch. “I never understood why you got them done.”

“All part of the disguise, you know?” Santana shrugs, visibly uncomfortable, but she doesn’t shy away from Quinn’s touch.

Instead of responding with words, Quinn leans forward, gently pulling the nipple into her mouth, tasting with her lips and tongue. Santana groans, her hands automatically gripping Quinn’s hair, holding her in place. She suddenly can’t get enough air in the stillness of the room and pulls at Quinn’s head. Quinn’s mouth releases her nipple with a wet pop and Quinn looks up at her with wide, dark eyes. Santana doesn’t hesitate to crush their mouths together and press Quinn back against the bed, covering Quinn’s body with her own.

Quinn’s legs lock around Santana’s hips as they breathe each other’s breath. Sweat slides along their torsos and between their breasts. Santana smiles down at Quinn and allows her hand to wander along Quinn’s side. Quinn captures her lips again, licking along her bottom lip and into her mouth, and pulls her impossibly closer. They pull apart only when their lungs are burning and desperate for oxygen.

Santana’s hand slides along Quinn’s hipbone and under the elastic of her bikini. She wastes no time removing the last barriers of clothing between them and settles back down on top of her. Her hands explore, skittering along Quinn’s thighs, the curve of her buttocks, the point of her hipbone. Quinn swallows Santana’s kisses like water. Santana’s fingers find her center and slide inside of her.

Lightning flashes outside the window and thunder cracks over the roof and Quinn comes apart.

* * *

Santana watches the rain run in rivers down her bedroom window, taking the heat of the previous day with it. It’s barely light out, but she’s been awake for at least an hour, listening to the way Quinn’s breathing mingles with the storm outside. It reminds her of her last night in Chile, dancing in the rain outside a hostel with Michaela because they could, because they’d probably never get the chance to dance in a rainstorm in Los Vilos ever again.

She looks down at the blonde head nestled against her chest, smiling at the sight. Lately she’s been contemplating whether she could move to Mexico, live with her tía and explore her roots. Quinn’s arm tightens across her hips, as if she’s reading Santana’s mind and wants to hold her in place. Santana leans down to kiss the top of Quinn’s head. Her mind drifts back to the previous night and she smiles as several ideas for how to wake Quinn up join her very pleasant memories.

She’s just about to put one of those ideas into action when Quinn’s phone begins to ring in her purse on the dresser next to the bed. Santana reaches for the bag, carefully pulling it to the bed by one strap and fishing out Quinn’s cell phone. She scowls at the name on the display for interrupting what was about to be a very happy morning and answers it quickly, already feeling Quinn stir against her.

“What?”

There is a pause, and then, “…Santana?”

“ _¡Dios mío!_ _What?_ ” Santana repeats, her voice a harsh whisper.

Kurt’s laugh is tinny and high-pitched through the speaker. “Why are you answering Quinn’s phone?” Santana hears something like mirth and mischief in his voice and rolls her eyes, switching the phone to her other ear to try and shield some of the noise from Quinn. She hears voices in the background but can’t tell whose.

Quinn stirs again, drawing Santana’s focus away from the phone. She feels gentle lips against her bare shoulder and glances down to see dark hazel eyes blinking heavily at her. She smiles softly and all of the acid in her tone disappears. “She’s asleep. What do you want, Kurt?”

On the other end of the line, Santana can practically hear Kurt’s smile. “Well. Santana Lopez, using my real name in conversation? What did you two get up to last night?”

“That is none of your damn business, Prancy Smurf, so why don’t you mind your own and –”

“Santana? Who are you talking to?” Quinn’s tired voice floats up to her and Santana sighs.

“Your boyfriend.”

Quinn is fully awake and pulling away from Santana’s side. She runs a hand over her face, trying to focus her eyes. “My what?”

Santana rolls her eyes in response and hands Quinn the phone.

Quinn takes the phone with a bemused smile, pressing the receiver against her ear. “Hello?” Santana can hear Kurt’s excited squeal as she settles back against the pillows.

“Oh, thank God, Quinn. You were not kidding about Santana first thing in the morning. Where are you?”

“Kurt?” Quinn looks to Santana for guidance but gets only a shoulder shrug in reply. “Um, Santana’s house. Why?”

Santana hears more squealing through the phone and, based on volume alone, thinks it must be Tina and Mercedes with him.

“Hmm… well, if you two – dare I say – love birds can deign to get out of bed,” he sing-songs, a slight mocking in his tone, “we’re all meeting at IHOP for breakfast in an hour.” He hangs up before Quinn or Santana can respond. Quinn stares down at her phone before turning her gaze to Santana.

“Hey,” she says softly, setting the phone down on the bed beside her.

“Hi,” Santana smiles.

“How’d you sleep?” Quinn asks, noticing for the first time Santana’s puffy, swollen eyes. She gives the other woman a bemused smile. “Or did you?”

Santana looks away, studying Quinn’s hands atop the bedspread. She smiles sheepishly and shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, well. So, breakfast with the glee club?”

“Guess so.”

Bold fingers reach out and run along Quinn’s collarbones, tickling the base of her throat. Santana’s gaze is steady but her pupils give her away, dilating so suddenly that the brown irises are overtaken by black in an instant.

“How’s your back today?”

The question catches Quinn off-guard, her mind going blank as she gasps for air. Her hands reach out and hold on to Santana’s narrow hips, caught between pulling her closer and holding her in place. Santana stares at her with an expectant smile and Quinn blinks.

“Um… good.” Her voice is tight and breathy.

“Good,” Santana murmurs, smiling devilishly. She leans down, kissing Quinn slowly, her tongue licking along the edge of Quinn’s teeth. Her pulse thrums in her wrists and she can taste herself on Quinn’s lips. She slides her left hand along the curve of Quinn’s breast and along her ribs as she settles onto her right forearm, never breaking the languid kiss. Her fingers trip through soft curls and begin a lazy exploration of the hot, wet flesh between Quinn’s thighs.

Quinn pulls back, pushing against the pillow under her head. “Santana, wait,” she chokes on the words, barely able to breathe them into the cool air of the room.

Santana is slow to respond. When she pulls away at Quinn’s insistence moments later, she is breathless. Her teasing fingers slow their movements but she doesn’t pull her hand away. “Wait?” Her face is incredulous. “Why?”

“Don’t you think we should talk?” Quinn’s voice is small.

“You wanna talk, right now?” One finger teases Quinn’s entrance as if to emphasize her point.

Placing a slow but firm kiss against Santana’s swollen lips, Quinn nods and pulls away. “Yeah, I do.”

Santana rolls off of Quinn’s upper body with an exasperated huff, but she doesn’t go far, hooking her right leg between both of Quinn’s and draping her arm over Quinn’s hips. She props herself up on her left elbow and pins Quinn with her eyes. “So? Talk,” she says, impatiently.

Quinn sighs, falling back onto the pillow. She stares at the ceiling. “Just… what are we doing?”

She feels more than sees the sly smile creep over Santana’s features. “I thought that was obvious.” She presses her knee at the apex between Quinn’s thighs, her skin coming back warm and wet. Quinn doesn’t stop her.

“Okay, yes,” Quinn concedes, turning to face Santana with a serious look. “But San, I fly back to Connecticut tomorrow afternoon and you’ll be back in Louisville on Tuesday. What then?”

It’s Santana’s turn to look away, her eyes skirting the edges of her bedroom. “Then… I don’t know, Quinn. Do we really have to figure this out right now?”

An exasperated laugh bursts from Quinn’s throat. “Yes, Santana, we do.” She shakes her head but reaches out to run a hand through Santana’s long, dark hair. Santana’s eyes flutter closed and she revels in the reassurance in that touch.

“We’ll both be busy with classes, especially now that I’m double-majoring in psych and women’s studies, and in case you’ve forgotten, fall is football season: your schedule with the Cards last year was hard enough when you weren’t taking any serious classes, and Brittany –.”

Santana digs her nails into Quinn’s hip in warning. Quinn sighs.

“When else are we going to talk about this?”

“Columbus Day.”

Quinn’s brow furrows. “What?”

“You’ll have a three-day weekend, right?” The volume of Santana’s voice rises with her excitement level.

“I think so. Why?” Quinn hedges, still not clear about the direction the conversation has turned.

“We have a home game that Sunday,” Santana says, rolling onto her back to give herself room to gesticulate with her hands. “You can come down and stay with me for the weekend. And we’ll all be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, like last year.”

“Wow.” Quinn blinks, taking it all in. “You’ve, um. You’ve thought about this a lot more than I have,” she admits, impressed. Santana nods.

“I had a lot of time to think about things this summer. Mostly, I thought about you.” She leans up on one elbow again, hovering over Quinn. Her face is a picture of raw, naked hope. “We’ll make it work, if that’s what you want,” she coaxes, her voice low.

Bottom lip secured between her teeth, Quinn nods. “I do.” She leans up and closes the distance between then, brushing her lips against Santana’s. “Whatever this is, I want it to work.”

The soft, hesitant kisses build until Santana is pressed fully against Quinn and they’re both gasping for air. Santana’s hands resume their explorations with more insistence, but Quinn pulls away again. Santana’s eyes flash annoyance as she looks down at the other woman and Quinn has the decency to look sheepish.

“We should really go meet everybody,” Quinn explains. Santana focuses on the movements of her swollen, red lips. Quinn swallows heavily, her throat bobbing. “We only have an hour to get ready and my hair smells like chlorine.” She smiles weakly.

“Really?” Santana growls. “You’re cockblocking me for the glee losers?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “You don’t have a cock, Santana, and you should probably stop calling them losers. They’re kind of our best friends.”

“You’re right,” Santana concedes. A wicked smile spreads over her face. “And as our best friends, they’ll understand why we’re late.”

She captures Quinn’s mouth in a passionate kiss, not leaving any room for argument. When Quinn’s legs wrap around her hips, she knows she would’ve won anyway.

* * *

The Lima, Ohio International House of Pancakes is crowded with families when Quinn and Santana arrive. Several missed calls from Kurt and Rachel and a handful of texts from Mike, Tina and Puck let them know that they’re almost forty minutes late. They walk hand-in-hand to the back of the restaurant where their friends are waiting for them.

Santana laughs when she sees their table: the only two available seats are on opposite ends, flanked by Kurt and Rachel on one end and Puck and Mercedes at the other. All eyes turn to watch them separate and pick their poison, and Quinn wonders at the image the two of them are projecting.

They’re both freshly showered, but no amount of soap can hide the hickeys on her neck or the perpetual grin on Santana’s face. Quinn wears the same skirt from the day before and one of Santana’s old WMHS gym shirts. Santana looks only slightly more put together in another, slightly longer pair of cutoffs and a black tank top.

Quinn settles in next to Kurt and rolls her eyes at the eager look on his face. She chances a glance down the table to Santana, who is already scowling at Puck and Mercedes as they tease her. Quinn catches her eye and smiles coyly. Santana, unable to help herself, smiles back.

Menus are passed around, food is ordered, and stories from last night are exchanged. Quinn marvels at her friends. The fact that she and Santana are together, something that would’ve been a massive scandal with endless drama just two years ago, is taken in stride. Even Brittany smiles happily at them, whispering to Sam that she “knew it.” There is no need to impress anyone now, no reason to embellish the details of her upcoming sophomore year at Yale. They have all already accepted each other, for better or worse. It’s only taken them several years to figure that out.   

Their food arrives and Santana takes the opportunity to come around the table, egg-white omelet and fruit cup in hand. Rachel takes the hint and switches seats with Santana without complaint. Quinn leans in, dropping a light kiss to Santana’s lips, and catcalls and whistles erupt from the table around them. Santana brushes them off with a wave of her hand and steals a piece of bacon off of Quinn’s plate.

Santana smiles at her and Quinn finally feels like she’s home.

* * *

The next afternoon, Quinn boards a Tweed-New Haven-bound plane with a smile.

Her phone buzzes incessantly with texts from Santana, Kurt and her mom as she buckles into her seat. She promises to call them all when she lands, but she already knows she’ll only be keeping that promise to Santana. Kurt and her mother can settle for a text message.

When the flight attendants make the announcement to turn off all electronics, Quinn sends a quick text goodbye to Santana and turns off her phone.

She settles into her seat as the plane begins its ascent and stares out the window, watching the flat lands of Ohio drift away.

* * *

The highway stretches for miles in front of Santana’s Camaro. Flat plains begin to give way to forested mountains and gray rock outcroppings dripping with the previous day’s rain. She never thought this drive was beautiful before today.

It’s mid-afternoon and Santana has been driving for an hour and a half. She yawns and stretches in her seat, feeling the lack of sleep from an entire night spent on the phone with Quinn creeping up on her.

A sign indicates that the next exit, at the outskirts of Cincinnati, holds a plethora of restaurants, hotels, gas stations and a Starbucks. Santana smiles and moves into the right lane, deciding it’s time for a break. She’s already pulling her phone out of her purse when she reaches the end of the turn-off. She pulls into the Starbucks parking lot dialing Quinn’s number.

Quinn’s smiling voice fills her ear through the speaker and Santana wonders how a city she’s never been to suddenly feels like home.

END.


End file.
